Mr Prashant is a seasoned educator and author with years of experience in school administration and classroom teaching. Having served as a Principal, he brings a wealth of knowledge on effective teaching practices and classroom management. He is also the author of several books, including "Image of my Experiences - a book of poetry," "Speeches from the Desk of the Principal," and "The Legend of Inara Wali." Now retired and residing in Bangalore, he
continues blogging etc
Peace, to me, is not merely the absence of noise — it is the gentle presence of harmony. It is that rare state when the mind’s unending chatter takes a dignified bow, and the heart breathes in the fragrance of stillness. In a world forever galloping towards the next deadline, the next desire, the next distraction, peace is the quiet innkeeper who invites me in, offers a seat by the hearth, and says, “Rest awhile… you are home.”
Peace is found in little, unadvertised moments. A dawn where the sun rises like a modest monk, draped in robes of gold. The rhythmic whisper of rain on a windowpane, composing a lullaby for the weary soul. The solemn companionship of a book whose words do not hurry but simply sit beside me, like an old friend who knows when not to speak.
Philosophers have long said that peace is a state of being rather than a possession. Marcus Aurelius mused that the soul becomes dyed with the colour of its thoughts — and so, if I think in calm hues, the world itself seems softer. Indian mystics remind us that peace is the seed from which compassion blossoms; without it, love becomes restless, and wisdom becomes brittle.
Spirituality teaches me that peace is not to be hunted for in forests or shrines alone; it dwells in the temple of my own breath. When I align my spirit with the eternal — whether through prayer, meditation, or silent gratitude — I feel as though my inner waters settle, reflecting the sky without a ripple.
For me, peace is a marriage of the temporal and the eternal — of a cup of tea enjoyed slowly, and a hymn that stirs the soul; of forgiving the past and surrendering the future. It is when I stand as both a witness to life and a humble participant in it, no longer wrestling with what should be, but gently holding what is.
And when peace arrives, it does not come trumpeting its name. It steps in barefoot, wearing a smile, and leaves a fragrance that lingers long after it has gone.
In the hush between two heartbeats, I hear A song that no storm can erase. Not in the crowd, nor the crown I wear, But within — I find my place.
Where prayer meets the open sky, And dreams drift like leaves downstream, There rests the soul — unbound, untied — In the quiet light of a timeless dream.
Among a thousand faces bright, One presence halts the turning night; A voice like rain on thirsty ground, A gaze where endless seas are found.
Not always storms, not always flame, Sometimes a warmth without a name; A steady glow, a tender hue, A home the soul already knew.
The brush of hands, a breath, a sigh, A scent that lingers, drifting by; The rhythm shared in silent air, The truth that you belong is there.
Plato spoke of halves once torn, From the dawn where love was born; Rumi saw two oceans meet, Where waves and tides in silence greet.
Some find the heart they’ve sought so long, Where glances speak and silences song; Others wander, searching still, Through deserts wide and mountains chill.
Romance is not to bind or own, But be the place one calls their own; A refuge found in clasping hands, Where understanding softly stands.
Desire may spark the body’s fire, But love lifts higher, and higher, and higher; It is the soul’s eternal call, The greatest truth that holds us all.
Love is too vast to be contained within the narrow walls of mere desire. To call it only a sexual urge is to confuse the spark for the fire, the fragrance for the flower. Desire may light the first candle, but love — true love — is the entire constellation of flames that follows. It is the pull of something ancient, the whisper of a bond older than our bones, the invisible music to which our hearts instinctively sway.
There are moments when, amidst a thousand faces, one presence stills the air. Their laughter feels like rain on parched earth, their eyes hold the calm of an untroubled sea. We find ourselves wanting to be near — to talk to them, share bread and stories, sit in silence where words are unnecessary. With them, the world shrinks into a small, intimate universe where even the clink of a teacup becomes a cherished sound.
It is not always a hurricane of passion. Sometimes it is the slow warmth of a hearth on a winter night, the steady glow that makes the cold bearable. Yet in their nearness, every sense awakens — the soft brush of their hand lingers longer than it should, their scent becomes a memory etched in air, the rhythm of their breathing seems to match the beat of our own heart.
Plato spoke of love as the search for our other half, torn from us at creation’s dawn. Rumi likened it to two oceans – meeting, their waters blending without boundary. Modern psychology calls it resonance — that natural alignment of emotional frequencies where comfort is instant and trust blooms without needing explanation. In truth, it feels like coming home to a place we had never visited before, yet somehow always known.
And yet, this journey is not equally kind to all. Some are fortunate to meet their echo and build a life where glances are enough and shared silences speak volumes. Others keep searching — through bustling cities and quiet nights — yearning for a presence they have only met in dreams. For the heart is an untiring pilgrim; it will walk through deserts of disappointment, scale mountains of doubt, and cross rivers of time just to find the wellspring it knows must exist.
Romance, when it blooms, is not just possession or passion — it is a sanctuary. It is the freedom to be fully seen and still be chosen. It is the warmth of fingers interlaced not for restraint, but for reassurance. It is the joy of waking to a familiar voice, the comfort of knowing that even in silence, you are not alone.
Yes, desire may be the body’s call — but love is the soul’s answer.
Some loves begin as sudden fire, A breath, a glance, a quiet desire; Yet grow into the sacred flame, That burns beyond all need for name.
The heart seeks more than lips can give, It craves the way another lives; And when two echoes blend as one, The night dissolves — the dawn has come.
When the world was still young, and the mountains were yet to find their final form, humans sat by the embers of fire, telling stories to one another in the hush of night. One soul among them spoke not to entertain alone, but to guide—to shape thought from the clay of wonder. That was the first teacher.
From that moment onward, civilisation moved forward not merely on legs and wheels, but on the wings of shared wisdom. It was not the strength of arms that built the first cities, but the passing of knowledge from heart to heart, like a flame carried in a clay lamp through the darkness.
Every era has had its keepers of this flame. In forest hermitages and marble halls, in village courtyards and crowded city schools, they have stood between the known and the unknown, bridging the chasm with patience, truth, and love.
A teacher is more than a profession— they are the quiet river in whose current drift the dreams of a thousand generations. Their words, though soft, outlast the clangour of armies and the decrees of kings. For kingdoms fall, but a single idea, planted well, can outlive the stars themselves.
There are countless professions that stitch the fabric of our civilisation—some build our homes, some defend our lands, some heal our wounds, and some craft wonders of art and science. Yet, among them all, there stands one that does not merely work upon the material world, but shapes the invisible architecture of the human spirit: the profession of teaching.
A teacher’s work is not always bathed in the applause of the world. Often, it is carried out in modest rooms, where chalk dust floats in the slanting rays of morning light and the sound of turning pages fills the air like the rustling of leaves in a sacred grove. Here, minds awaken not with clamour, but with the gentle spark of understanding—a spark that can ignite a lifetime of discovery.
From the dawn of history, teachers have been the quiet architects of civilisations. In the gurukuls of ancient India, the acharya did not merely impart lessons in scriptures and sciences but also cultivated discipline, humility, and dharma. In the agora of Athens, Socrates led his disciples to wisdom not by giving them answers, but by leading them into questions deep enough to stir their very being. In the monasteries of Europe, monks copied manuscripts by candlelight, ensuring that knowledge did not perish in the dark.
Philosophy reminds us that every human being is both a seeker and a potential teacher. The Buddha taught under the Bodhi tree not with power, but with compassion. Confucius wandered through kingdoms, sowing seeds of virtue, sometimes rejected by kings but never abandoning his mission. A true teacher sees the invisible scaffolding within a student’s heart, and helps build it strong enough to hold dreams.
The teacher’s influence is profound because it flows through generations. One inspired pupil may one day lead a nation, heal thousands, or compose music that soothes souls yet unborn. And yet, the teacher rarely claims ownership of these triumphs; their reward lies in knowing that the torch they lit has travelled far beyond their sight.
There is also a rare humility in this calling. The world today runs on speed, spectacle, and instant gratification, but teaching remains an art of patience. It does not harvest overnight; it tends the soil, season after season, trusting that roots will take hold. This is perhaps its greatest nobility—it is a profession built on hope, not haste.
In truth, teachers are like lighthouses on the shore of the vast ocean of life. They do not sail the ships themselves, but their presence ensures that countless vessels reach their destination safely. Their light does not diminish by sharing—it grows brighter with every life it touches.
And so, I admire teachers not only for what they teach, but for what they embody: the grace to guide without control, the courage to nurture without expectation, and the wisdom to understand that the truest legacies are not carved in stone, but in the conscience of humanity.
They plant their seeds in furrows deep, Beneath the watch of patient skies, And though the storms may lash the field, Their harvest blooms in other eyes.
They speak in tones the heart can hear, Not bound by parchment, ink, or pen, Their lessons flow like quiet streams, That shape the valleys, time, and men.
O keepers of the eternal flame, Your silent watch will never cease, For in each mind you dare to wake, You write the hymn of lasting peace.
If I were to open a shop, it would not be just a marketplace for goods; it would be a sanctuary for souls. Its shelves would not groan under the weight of commodities, but sigh softly under the fragrance of dreams. The air would carry the delicate perfume of memory, and the walls would hum with the unspoken verses of life.
I would sell moments—carefully wrapped in brown paper, tied with a ribbon of starlight. You could buy the taste of the first monsoon rain on your lips, or the warmth of a winter morning when the sun slips in like a polite guest through the curtains. You could take home the laughter of a long-lost friend, bottled in crystal jars, or the music of a gentle brook playing its ageless lullaby.
There would be romance for sale too, but not the fleeting kind that fades with seasons. My shelves would offer the slow-burning love of handwritten letters, ink slightly smudged where the heart hesitated, and the sweetness of a gaze that lingers just a fraction longer than it should. In the quiet corner, I’d stock moonlight in jars—so that lonely hearts could pour it into their teacups on sleepless nights.
And for those who wander in search of meaning, I’d sell philosophy in packets—tiny scrolls with words that remind you that life is both a question and its answer. You’d find Seneca’scalm, Rumi’sfire, and Tagore’s breeze waiting for you to unwrap them.
The currency here would not be coins but kindness. A smile would buy you a sunrise; a tear would earn you the comfort of a sunset. No customer would leave empty-handed, for everyone who entered would walk away with a little more light than they came with.
Because this shop would not trade in the ordinary—it would deal only in the rare, the fragile, and the eternal.
Beneath my shop’s old wooden sign, You’d find the stars in a patient line, Waiting to drop in a human palm, A spark of wonder, a drop of calm.
Here, time is folded like silken thread, The past and future quietly wed, And every soul, when they depart, Carries a candle lit in the heart.
We live in a world where our pockets jingle with keys, our bags bulge with devices, and our diaries overflow with appointments. We double-check for our wallet, spectacles, phone, and perhaps an umbrella if the sky has that sullen grey look. Yet, the most essential possession, the one that guards our dignity and guides our steps, is often left behind — our inner light.
This is not a thing you can buy in a marketplace, nor can it be borrowed from another soul. It is the amalgam of self-respect, kindness, courage, and hope — the very fabric of our inner being. It is the silent, steadfast presence that whispers reassurance when the world seems deaf to our cries, and steadies our hands when life’s bridge sways over an abyss.
From the golden pages of philosophy to the delicate verses of poetry, the message is unchanging. The Bhagavad Gita proclaims yogastha kuru karmani — remain rooted in your inner balance and then act. Marcus Aurelius in his Meditations urges, “You have power over your mind — not outside events. Realise this, and you will find strength.” And the Sufi poets, with their gentle mysticism, remind us that the lamp within is the only true guide in the darkening of the night.
The world will demand that you carry many things — wealth to secure your needs, wit to survive its sharp corners, knowledge to navigate its complexities. But none of these alone can save you when your ship is caught in the high tide. Only that inner companion — call it faith, self-belief, equanimity, or moral compass — can steady the rudder and keep your course true.
It is like a secret fragrance that clings to you no matter where you wander. People may not see it, but they will feel it — in the warmth of your handshake, the patience in your listening, the sincerity in your words. It turns ordinary interactions into moments of grace and transforms burdens into stepping stones.
In the deserts of uncertainty, it becomes a flask of cool water. In the crowded chaos of life, it becomes a quiet garden where you can breathe. In the sleepless nights of worry, it becomes the lullaby that silences the restless mind. Without it, no journey feels safe; with it, every journey becomes an adventure worth taking.
So as you step into each day, before you reach for your watch or your keys, ask yourself: Am I carrying my inner light? For in the end, the measure of a life well-lived is not in how much we have gathered, but in how much light we have carried — and how much we have passed on.
Carry with you the candle of calm, Through tempests fierce and skies that harm; For in its glow, the night will flee, And show the path you’re meant to see.
Carry with you the seed of grace, Plant it gently in each place; Though time may test and winds may sway, Its flowers will guide another’s way.
Carry with you the heart’s soft flame, Through all the praise, through all the blame; For when your hands hold light so true, The world will always shine for you.
Carry with you the soul’s clear song, It makes the weak in spirit strong; And in its music, pure and deep, Even broken dreams may sleep.
One Word, One World: The Change I Seek Through My Blog
In the quiet corners of the internet, amidst the clamour of commercialised clicks and viral spectacles, there exists a humble space — my blog. Not designed to disrupt the world in grandeur nor to stir revolutions with thunderous roars, but to softly sow seeds of thought, one reader, one reflection at a time. If ever a change I dare dream my blog could bring, it is this: to awaken the forgotten art of feeling, thinking, and being.
A World Numb with Noise
We live in an age of fast swipes and fleeting glances, where depth drowns in distraction and silence has become suspicious. Empathy is outsourced to emojis, and contemplation is often mistaken for procrastination. The human heart, once a fertile field of emotions, seems paved over with apathy — not by cruelty, but by indifference.
In this atmosphere, I wish my blog to act like a drop of rain on parched earth, reviving what is within rather than pointing fingers at what lies without.
The Change I Yearn For
Not everyone must become an activist or philosopher — but everyone must be reminded that they are alive not just to exist, but to experience, to express, and to evolve. Through stories, stanzas, silent screams between the lines — my writing seeks to:
1. Stir a heart dulled by routine into awe again
2. Remind a reader that they are not alone in their silent suffering
3. Encourage the old soul hiding in youth, and the youth forgotten in age
4. Celebrate the sacredness of small things — a dandelion, a drizzle, a detour
I do not promise to cure pain, but if a sentence of mine acts like a balm to someone’s bruised evening, my purpose finds its pulse.
A Quill Touched by Philosophy
Philosophers, from Heraclitus to Adi Shankaracharya, remind us of change — that everything flows, and yet nothing truly changes unless the soul does. My words are not new rivers, but perhaps they remind someone that they are not drowning alone. If I can mirror to someone their own reflection — clearer, kinder, and less cluttered — the ripple will be worth it.
Let the blog be not a monologue, but a communion. Not a broadcast, but a bridge. Poetic Whispers to the World
Poetic Whispers to the World
If you wander into my words with weariness, May you wander out with wings. If you enter with echoes of emptiness, May you exit with embered beginnings.
I do not write to be remembered, But to awaken what others forget. Not to be a lighthouse on the shore, But a flickering candle where none has yet been lit.
The Gentle Revolution
The change I desire is neither thunderous nor viral. I wish my blog to inspire quiet revolutions — the kind that make someone pause at the sunset, forgive without needing apology, read old poetry aloud, or smile at a stranger for no reason at all.
Perhaps, in a world rushing nowhere, a pause — a mere pause — is enough of a protest.
In the tapestry of existence, my blog is but a single thread. Yet, as Rumi once said, “You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.”
So I write — not to change the world, but to help someone change their own.
And that, I believe, is the most honest change one can ever make.
Let the blog breathe where the world holds its breath!
